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funeral.
    Unable to move, Collin sat stone still, head down, eyes closed. His breathing was jagged and labored. His fingers were interlaced across his lap as if in prayer. Maybe it was a prayer. Maybe it was just a momentary pause to deal with the weight of the situation. Dozens of pairs of eyes were on him and he knew it. In that moment, he was immobilized.
    When his eyes opened, they took in the green artificial turf that stretched beyond his black, patent leather shoes. It was spread out to protect the grass and conceal the mound of dirt just a yard away. The smell of freshly cut grass, mingled with wet earth and a hint of flowers, sat heavy in the warm air of the mid-July morning. Just a few feet from where he sat was an open hole, a full-sized wooden coffin suspended above it. To his right, there were three more holes; they had smaller coffins hanging over them—belonging to his eight-year-old son Max, his six-year-old daughter Jane, and sweet little Eliza, not quite three. Surreal, devastating, and utterly unimaginable was the sight. He closed his eyes again and fought back hot tears.
    Though there was a large crowd of people who had come to show love, support, and shared loss, Collin felt little comfort. Though the words spoken during the funeral were meant to bring peace and strength, Collin felt tormented, alone, and unsure. Though thousands of letters had filled his mailbox, he still felt detached and disconnected. In that moment his life had begun to spin out of control. Normal was forever lost.
    His father’s meaty hand squeezed his shoulder. Henry Cook rose slowly. Instinctively, Collin followed and felt the large hand steadying him. Blindly, Collin walked next to his dad who, as always, was solid as a rock. Silently, the two men made their way past the hushed crowd, all adorned in black, all appropriately reverent.
    His mother, Sarah, his brother, Richard, his sister, Megan, and his best friend, Rob Howell, followed behind them. Rob had been at Collin’s house since hearing about the accident, putting his busy schedule on hold for the week to help his buddy make the arrangements. The rest of the family felt it natural for Rob to step in and take over as Collin leaned heavily on Rob’s steady, reliable leadership. Rob was like another member of the Cook family. Always had been.
    Collin’s mind also recalled the monotony and despair that dragged on for months and how it was shattered on a November morning by the arrival of a FedEx envelope and the cryptic note it contained.
    Meet me at Graffiti. 6:00 tonight. Take a taxi. Bring this envelope. It’s important.
    -         Rob
    Collin remembered how Rob gave him a quick hug, then ushered him out the back door of the crowded restaurant and onto a boat at the adjoining marina. The back deck was covered by a fitted, canvas tarp. Rob led him through an opening in the tarp and into the leather and teakwood appointed salon.
    While Collin’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, a man who had been seated on a leather sofa rose awkwardly and put out his hand. After a short pause to focus, Collin peered into the face of a man whose funeral he had attended three years earlier. The handshake became an embrace as the dead man drew him near and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss. I wish I could have been there for you, Collin.” As Collin squeezed back, his dear friend added, “I also wish we had managed to meet under more pleasant circumstances.” The softened Germanic accent and the icy blue eyes confirmed that Collin was in the presence of Lukas Mueller, the third member of “The Perfect Trio,” as they were called at Huntington Beach High. Lukas was the brains, Collin the brawn, and Rob the looks and charm.
    When Lukas loosened his bear hug, Collin stared in disbelief. “It’s really you,” he said, grabbing his friend’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it.”
    “Yes, it is. In the flesh. Resurrected, as it were. Sorry about the fake funeral and all.  I